


First Past the Post

by Jay Tryfanstone (tryfanstone)



Category: PEYTON K.M. - Works, Prove Yourself A Hero - K. M. Peyton
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Horses, M/M, Period Specific Homophobic Language, Yuletide 2017, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/pseuds/Jay%20Tryfanstone
Summary: The wind had blown away the last of his hangover, the sun was warm on his back, and the day was shading from brand new to delightfully fresh. All he needed now was breakfast, a proper breakfast, not one of those anaemic poached egg and margarine on toast city affairs but a full on fry up.





	First Past the Post

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trialia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trialia/gifts).



Ahead of him, Peter's sturdy grey mare was striding out, ears pricked and eager, but Jonathan's chestnut, Ember, was nervy and sweating and convinced that the hedge hid any number of horse-threatening dangers. The horse was practically dancing up the road on tiptoes, snatching at the bit, taking advantage of the four years since Jonathan had sat on a horse and his lingering hangover. The chestnut was narrow-shouldered, too, so that Jonathan felt as if he was perched on a coat-rack, his thighs aching as he tried to collect both of them into a recognisable gait. He cursed silently under his breath at Peter's quiet competence. "Get up," Peter had said to him, in the dank pre-dawn gloom of Jonathan's Belgravia basement digs. "We're going out." Out! He must look a right plonker, too, in a Jermyn Street shirt with one of Peter's jumpers, much darned, and a never worn pair of bell-bottomed jeans his sister had bought him for Christmas two years ago. Not the sort of person who should be on a horse at all.

The chestnut took umbrage at a stand of lords-and-ladies, their scarlet berries vivid against the deep green of the hawthorn hedge, and skittered sideways. Instinctively, Jonathan deepened his seat and steadied the reins, reassuring. Ahead, the grey's tail twitched with irritation at the kerfuffle, but with his rider engaged and the predatory lords-and-ladies safely avoided, Ember stepped into a stiff and tolerable walk. Peter, who was almost certainly on a horse at least twice a day and three times on Sundays, had never turned round.

It was spring. The morning mist had almost burned off the fields, lingering only in the dips, and pale sunshine sent long shadows across the road and turned the tall grass of the verge into luminous spears. There was a curlew calling from one of the thickets, deceptively plaintive, and Ember, who had taken such exception to wildflowers, merely flicked an ear at the old dog fox trotting home on the other side of the hedge. The scene was, Jonathan thought with guilty irritation, quintessentially English, and as far removed from the trading floor of the stock exchange as a yacht was from the QEII. Was this Peter's idea of revenge, after the horror of the previous evening? He should never have invited Peter out with his colleagues from the brokerage. It was obvious in retrospect, and Jonathan cringed from the memory of it, the braying laughter of a room of overpaid and increasingly inebriated public schoolboys, and Peter in his race-day suit, sitting in the corner, getting quieter and quieter and nursing a single pint of bitter. Christ, had he really apologised? He rather thought he had, although there may have been a lamp-post involved....

Peter turned off the road. There was a sunken lane leading up onto the downs, narrow and shadowed. Elm trees, pollarded long ago and left to grow freely, lined both sides of the lane and towered overhead, cutting out the light. The effect was like going into a tunnel, and Ember shivered between Jonathan's knees, aware his rider had tensed. 

"Watch out for the roots," Peter said. He'd slowed the mare. "Couple of hundred yards and we'll be out on the downs."

Jonathan gritted his teeth and kept his eyes between Ember's ears. It was not that he was claustrophobic, per se, but dark spaces - confined spaces - 

"You look a right berk in those jeans," Peter observed. "Thought you had better taste."

"It was these or yachting shorts," Jonathan said grimly.

Peter gave a bark of laughter, but said nothing. Familiar shame tightened Jonathan's hands on the reins and clogged his throat. It was such a childish fear, he should have long-since outgrown it, but Peter had been there for the nightmares, that summer he had spent at the McNair's, after the kidnapping. They'd grown apart after that, inevitable really, Jonathan going back to school and Peter finding an apprenticeship with a National Hunt stables, and then there had been Oxford and a job with the firm, no more horses, just the trading floor and cigars at the club, holidays in Cannes or the Vosges and weekends out on the Solent - come on down, old boy... He'd always felt free on the water. Odd that the sea held no fears, but the dark...

Suddenly, he was in sunlight, clear and pale, the sky cloudless and washed clean with the dawn and the short grass of the Downs dew-jewelled in front of them. The horses knew where they were, Ember pulling at the reins, picking up his feet, while Peter's mare, so solid on the road, was poised to run. It was like being a boy again: Jonathan knew this, the invitation of the grass and all the eager power of a willing horse under him. Everything else was gone. He was grinning already, feeling washed clean himself, gathering up the reins and dropping his heels - Peter's stirrups were too short again, he always rode like the jockey he wanted to be - 

Was. Last year's Grand National champion raised an eyebrow, and Jonathan dropped his hands. Ember burst forward from a standing start, three long strides and they were a length ahead already, the wind catching Ember's mane and whipping colour into Jonathan's cheeks. Under Ember's hooves the turf was as springy and fresh as if they were running on a race track starred with daisies and the gold gleam of spring buttercups, and all the horse's nervous energy was transmuted into the joy of running. Jonathan whooped, leaning low over Ember's neck, and took a swift glance back. The mare was faster than she looked, her powerful legs pounding into the turf, Peter crouched on her back, but the gap was widening. Take that! Jonathan thought, and looked ahead just as Ember plunged, all blind enthusiasm, towards a gorse bush. It was too late to swerve: Jonathan shoved himself into the saddle, tightened his reins, and lifted Ember over it by what must have been sheer force of will. The horse took it like a novice steeple-chaser, all power, and Jonathan was laughing when they hit the ground. He'd missed this. He'd really missed this. He felt alive again, flushed with delight, the day, the horse between his legs, the speed, the honesty of being himself.

Ember, a little astonished by his own daring, had shortened his stride. Peter and the grey mare had taken a racing curve, clean as a whistle and now at least four lengths ahead. It was not to be borne - Jonathan might not be the better rider, not now, but he had the better horse...

They were nose to nose at the end of the ridge. Peter knew the ground, but it was Jonathan who began to pull up, easing Ember up, dropping down to an uncomfortable trot and then a circling walk as the horse cooled down underneath him. He'd lost his nervousness, stretching out into a long and willing stride, ears pricked, while Jonathan patted his neck and looked out across the patchwork of fields and farms. It had been a grand run, and it was not done yet. He should do this more often, Jonathan thought, and then half-choked on an image of himself gravely parading through Hyde Park on one of the dusty riding school hacks, poor sods, in a pinstriped suit with his umbrella in hand. 

"Good goer, isn't he?" Peter shouted.

"Super!" said Jonathan. He was still grinning, enthused as he had not been in years. The wind had blown away the last of his hangover, the sun was warm on his back, and the day was shading from brand new to delightfully fresh. All he needed now was breakfast, a proper breakfast, not one of those anaemic poached egg and margarine on toast city affairs but a full on fry up. 

"Don't let him loose, though," warned Peter, dismounting. He knotted the mare's reins and let her go with a pat. "I've got tea."

He must have brought a flask from the stableyard. Jonathan, finding dismounting a stiffer effort than he had anticipated, stumbled a little, and found that by the time he'd tethered Ember to a less than convenient and stunted hazel Peter had pulled out of his knapsack a rug, the flask, and what looked very like bacon rolls. The smell was wonderful. It reminded Jonathan, instantly and vividly, of his mother cooking at the stove in the big kitchen at Ravenshall. He'd forgotten that - they'd rented out the house years ago. 

Peter thrust a steaming mug and a warmish roll into his hands. 

"Ta."

They ate in silence. It was, Jonathan thought with astonished relief, so very restful to be with a chap who did not feel the need to fill every second with conversation. The blokes from the firm were alright, he supposed, but there was a lot to be said for a man of few words. They were so quiet a few cautious rabbits poked their noses outside and, deeming the pair of them harmless enough, began wary inroads on the dandelions. 

"Rum do, your local," said Peter. His face had blanked, which was a dead giveaway in itself.

Jonathan expected to bristle, but the morning was too beautiful. "I shouldn't have taken you there," he said, and surprised himself by how much he meant it. The _Lion_ was no place for Peter, full as it was of Habitat chairs, city stuffed shirts, and husband hunting debutant types slumming it with Babychams. He felt miserable about it himself, at a distance. 

Peter shrugged. "Not as if I don't know how the other half lives," he said. 

"The horsey set's a bit more honest, I think," said Jonathan. "Enough overlap, though. Timble - the bloke with the blue tie-" He'd had a crush on Timble, when he'd first joined the firm. Blondes, every time. "-Fancies himself a bit of a punter. Never been on a horse, I think." 

"Huh," said Peter. He grimaced.

The mist had completely gone, and the sun was gleefully working on the dew. When Jonathan put his hand down, the grass was nearly dry, the earth warm. He felt that the world was full of small living things, uncurling into the day, bees and beetles and greater creeping buttercup, or whatever flowers grew on chalkland. London seemed a long way away. 

"They're not bad blokes," Jonathan said.

Peter shrugged. "Dunno how you do it," he said. 

"Money's good," said Jonathan. He'd always thought he'd like that bit, the audacious maths of it, buying and selling, doing better than his father ever had, but it turned out that when everything was nothing more than figures in a ledger and tax dodges - well, it wasn't the same as actually building something. He had enough money in the bank now, he supposed, and his dad seemed to be proud of him, in an offish kind of way. Jessica had reproduced, of course, so it only seemed fair that his parents should spend their time in Hertfordshire when they were in England at all. That reminded him. "How's your dad? Your step-mum?"

"Dad's okay. Thinking of slowing down a bit. He's getting on, you know."

"I can't imagine it," said Jonathan. Mr McNair was a taciturn and exacting man, a successful horseman with a yard of hunters and chasers. His wife, Peter's step-mother, was Italian, a superb cook who had been delighted to feed extra mouths at the kitchen table, Jonathan thought of her fondly, when he thought of her at all. "Giovanni's still a kid, isn't he?"

"At prep school now," Peter said, without rancour. He'd gone to the local comprehensive himself. "For the best, really. Boy wants to be an artist." 

Jonathan laughed. "No! Your dad must be beside himself."

"You're not wrong," said Peter. "Best thing for him, really. Maria stuck her neck out, good on her." He tugged at a handful of grass, frowning down at it. For spring, he had a pronounced tan, white at his neckline, deeply coloured on his hands and forearms. There were faint freckles on his cheeks Jonathan had never noticed before. "Dad wants me to take on the yard."

"Yeah?" It seemed unlikely. Jomathan couldn't imagine McNair letting go, and Peter had left home at sixteen just to get out of his father's yard. 

"That's what I thought, too," said Peter. "But...I think he's tired. Maria wants to go home for a while, too. And I don't mind having the kid for weekends, he's a good lad. Quiet." The grass came up out of the ground with a rush, muddy roots and bright green leaves. "Yard needs a bit of cash, though."

So that was it. Jonathan opened his mouth and said, knowing his accent had sharpened into the London drawl of the stock market, "Get me the figures, and I'll think about it."

Peter glanced up. "I don't want a sleeping partner, you idiot. What good is that? Why d'you think I came to you? Could've asked anyone." His voice had sharpened. "Always thought-" The grass was shredding. Peter's hands were rough, scarred at the knuckles, but shaped like a pianist's should be, long fingered and elegant. Horses trusted those hands. Peter had always had a knack for the difficult ones. "-thought we'd-"

"There was no us!" Jonathan said, far too loudly.

Peter looked at him. His face was not quite blank, either that, or Jonathan had not forgotten how to read him after those hours and days, years, on the same wavelength. Horses, always, a digression or two into motorbikes, occasional girls until - and something, a shared sensibility, a odd kind of spark - he was blushing. Christ, no, not after all these years, not now, for the love of God. He'd managed to have a pash on Hugo - Hugo! - for years without giving himself away -

"It's not illegal now, you know," said Peter. 

There was sympathy on his face, sympathy and a sort of patient curiosity that Jonathan could not bear to consider. "Well, bully for you," he snapped. "I'm not a fucking poofter, McNair!"

But he was. He was. He'd been doing okay with the girls, and then there was Hugo, and it had all gone to pot in the worst possible way, so there was nothing for it to put his head down and get on with it, really, until Peter-

"Some of my best friends are poofters," said Peter. "And I'm pretty sure some of them fuck."

"And some of them don't!" Jonathan shouted. "Some of them can't, okay! Legal or not!" 

The dew had dried off, now, and the smell of the grass was as sweet as honey. There was clover in the long grass under the gorse, and a single bee, industrious and economical and unbothered by the corrosive shame Jonathan could feel tiding from his belly to his temples. He turned his head away, and then thought maybe he should be expecting Peter to punch him, and looked back, but Peter was only looking back with wide eyes and a flush rising under his tan.

"Well," Peter said, and then had to clear his throat. "Well."

"Happy now?" said Jonathan bitterly. He supposed he'd better get the horse. It was going to be a long ride back, and there was not likely to be a lift into town. 

"Yeah," said Peter, and swallowed again. "Look, would you, I mean-"

"What?"

"Let me get this straight first," said Peter. "There's no one else I want to work with, okay? I always thought we would. I always hoped we would." He shook his head, glanced down, and then, very deliberately, reached out and cupped his hand around Jonathan's face. "I want you to know that I want you as my partner whatever happens, alright?" 

He was serious. Jonathan, feeling oddly numb, as if this was happening to someone else, nodded. The sky had fallen in, and yet, it hadn't: he was still on the rug, Peter was still looking at him with the same expression, cautiously hopeful, still flushed. It seemed unreal. 

"Good," said Peter. "Now, can't, or won't?" He was studying Jonathan, still inexplicably the same Peter. "I mean-" he made an impatient movement with his hand. "Everything still works, right?"

He must have flushed the colour of a fairy toadstool when he realised what Peter meant. His nod was little more than a reflex, for yes, Jonathan was perfectly capable. Deprived, in fact. Depraved -

"Good," said Peter. "So. Can I kiss you?"

No words came out of Jonathan's mouth. It was as if his ears had suddenly been wrapped in cotton wool, he couldn't hear a thing over the beating of his own heart, he couldn't move, he couldn't breath, he couldn't speak, and then suddenly he could, although his " _What_?" was little more than a squeak. 

"I thought I was clear," said Peter. He was beginning to smile, that familiar little curl to his mouth. 

Jonathan found that he had not yet lost the last of his self-respect, nor his backbone. He leaned forward, eyes open, and felt the prickle of Peter's stubble under his palm. He felt as if he'd been drinking champagne, not tea, bright fizzy bubbles of it, as enlivening as Peter's smile. 

"Actually," Jonathan said, "I'm going to kiss you."

And did.

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> Trialia, happy yuletide! It was lovely to see a K.M.Peyton request. Thank you.
> 
> This story is AU from the end of _Prove Yourself a Hero_.


End file.
